Sinking Ship
by FiveMetersOfPrussia
Summary: All Roger wants is for Jack to love him. (TW: attempted suicide)
1. Drowning

Sinking ship

Summary: In which Roger critiques the interior of the house.

Warning(s): TW: Attempted suicide, mentions of previous attempts, cheating, depression, anxieties.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Flies.

A/N: And the sadness binge continues. But there will be a happy ending, so stay tuned kids!

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Roger had really never given much thought to the idea of the interior of the house before, it was comfortable and quiet, if a little bland. There were white walls, muted colors, a wood floor that creaked with every step… It had gotten to the point where he could tell just how moody his boyfriend was with how loudly or softly he treaded across the surface. The ginger had always insisted that the place needed more color, that it was drab and almost miserable looking, but he never made any move to go about changing any of it and Roger simply didn't care.

Or at least, that's what he'd thought.

He stared up at the ceiling from his position, curled up at the bottom of the tub, water rippling gently as the breeze from the open window glided across the surface gently, taking in all the strange little cracks and points of the plaster. To him, it looked like veins stretching across the dry, acrid surface, and he found something almost beautiful about the chalky looking surface. As the breeze passed through again, brushing over his knee caps, which protruded from the water like little islands in the vast, silent ocean of the tub, he couldn't help but shiver, shutting his eyes tightly as he tried to resist the urge to sit up. His lungs burned with desperation, with wanting, and he hated that his own body was trying to betray him, to live on despite the constant longing for disappearance.

He was invisible any ways.

As always, though, the second he shut his eyes was the second he began to struggle, to fight with himself to stay submerged, to slowly drown of his own volition… The first sound to reach his ears was water sloshing over the edge of the tub and splashing as it hit the ground, followed by coughing as he choked on the air that his lungs so greedily burned for, chest heaving. He could remember the first time he'd done this, the first time he'd woken up in the hospital after, the first time he'd seen Jack look so completely and endlessly devoid of anything. Roger could tell that he'd been crying, though Jack would never admit to it, and the days that followed were some of the most painful ones that they'd ever had.

For days, Jack didn't say a word - maybe he _couldn't _\- and his gaze was empty… Until, of course, he looked at Roger, so hurt, so heartbroken, the constant, silent question of why hanging in the air like a fog. Roger took to sleeping on the couch most nights, unable to bare the weight of the question that plagued him. On the nights that it hurt most to be alone that he would tip toe in quietly and lay beside him, ignoring the pain that would settle into his chest, constricting his heart and making it hard to breathe when the other would roll away to face the wall. Some nights he would just lay there, drowning in self loathing and crippling loneliness, with only his own arms to hold himself and try to sleep, others it would simply be too much and he would slip away just as silently to perch in the bathroom, fill the tub, and try once more to drown.

This was not one of those times, however. It was about midday, and quite beautiful out, a warm breeze blowing and the sweet smell of summer thick in the air. Any other day this would have been a good sign, Roger would sit out on the patio and read, maybe Jack would come home for lunch and sit with him for a while and they would chat and be warm and content to enjoy each other's company. Things would be warm and bright and maybe Roger wouldn't feel so bad for a little while… The discovery of the box of letters under the bed, however, changed everything completely.

They'd started out simple, just silly, friendly little things and for a moment they had made him smile fondly, making the heart wrenching pain all the more real when they turned into something else. Suddenly all of those long, miserable nights made sense, the way Jack would turn away from him, the way he sometimes looked at him miserably, as if he were trying to apologize… The dates of the letters told him that it all began shortly after the first trip to the hospital and followed all the way up to last thursday. A day that Jack had had to 'work'.

It didn't occur to Roger to bother to stuff the love letters right back where they'd been, or to even call Jack and demand a reason as to _why_. It didn't matter why he'd cheated, it wouldn't change the fact that he was completely, madly in love with someone else. Someone who didn't wake up screaming at night and beg him to make the imaginary monsters go away, someone who didn't call him on the verge of tears because someone knocked on the door and they were deathly afraid of one of those monsters being on the other side, someone wouldn't have to feel ashamed of when he invited friends over to the house… Someone that was simply easier to love.

Curling over as he wrapped his arms around himself, he choked on a sob as he slowly rocked back and forth, shaking with the weight of his heartache. He just wanted Jack to love him… He wanted him to hold him and feel safe, for him to kiss him and smile at him like he used to. But those smiles were for someone else, the kisses and sweet feelings were just memories, and Roger was nothing more than just a burden to him now. He didn't want to force Jack to stay on this sinking ship… Even if the redhead didn't love him anymore, Roger would always, _always_ love Jack.

Leaning over the edge of the tub, he delicately picked up the small pocket knife that had been in the letter box, and brought it to the palm of his hand, hissing as the blade bit sharply into his skin. He watched with grim satisfaction as blood pooled into his palm, gripping the handle of the blade between his teeth as he dipped a finger in the crimson liquid and turned to the wall. His hands shook as he wrote slowly, finding a vague satisfaction in the stark contrast between the red of his blood and white of the wall, and laughed a little despite himself. The color really did make it look a little more lively.

He was unaware of the front door opening as Jack came home, turning back to the task at hand as he rested the blade against his wrist, shaking as he tried to prepare himself for what he was about to do. He had to. He couldn't keep asking Jack to stay when he so clearly wanted to go. He just wanted Jack to love him… Taking a deep breath, he choked on a sob as pain blossomed in his wrist, burning as he drug the blade down his arm slowly, shaking as the water slowly turned red.

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_A/N: Aaaaaaand that's all for now! Leave me a review and lemmie know what you thought! Also there will be more, I promise._


	2. love lost, love returned

Love lost, love returned

Summary: In which Jack feels like poo.

Warning: Feelings pretty much full force, mate.

Disclaimer: I do not own lord of the flies.

A/N: I've got so many updates guys, I wasn't kidding.

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Jack had never felt colder in his life. He sat silently in the little chair beside the hospital bed, a rather faded burst of color amongst the blinding, sterile whiteness of the room. Outside the sky was overcast and lonely, no birds sang, and below them even the busy life of the city seemed to be in a slump. Not that it mattered to Jack one way or another as he listened silently to the beep of the heart monitor.

He couldn't bring himself to look at Roger, instead opting for staring out the window instead, bright blue eyes lost and listless as he counted the beeps in sets of four. Like macab music to his ears, quietly conveying the information of Roger's still existence. He could hardly remember whether or not he'd screamed when he found Roger, whether he'd cried as he held him, soaking his blood into his increasingly damp clothing. It all felt like a dream, or a distant nightmare... Nothing felt real anymore. Nothing aside from the beeping of the heart monitor and the bitter, frigid ice that seemed to fill his very soul, pumping through his veins with a vengeance.

But he must have screamed for him, must gave cried like an abandoned child lost in the dark,clbecayse he could feel it. He could feel the slow burn of it in his throat, the slight, irritating itch in his eyes and the dull throbbing in his head. At least, that's what he thought he felt. Swallowing thickly, Jack's eyes fluttered distractedly, prettily, but did not shut, too frightened of the image practically carved into his vaguely purple, tired eyelids. On their plane white walls, Roger's blood stood out like a beacon in the night and Jack couldn't quite seem to swallow the lump in his throat.

_Please love me_. That's all that is had said, and really, it was all that needed to be said, wasn't it? Or, rather, that's what Jack had decided to believe. Not that he knew what it meants, but he was probably reading too much into it. He'd loved Roger for as long as he could remember, it was as natural to him as eating or sleeping, he needed Roger like he needed air, for chrissake! What was it even supposed to mean? He did love him, he _did_... But if he loved him, loved him properly, loved him like he_ should_, then why were they here? Why did they always end up back here, with Roger pale as the purgatorious walls around him, white as the crisp, scratchy sheets that covered him.

Jack's tongue felt out of place in his mouth, useless and thick, just as out of place as he was. So many unspoken apologies had flittered through his head, so many fragile, fleeting, **useless** words. None of it really made a difference, but still he, like Sysiphus, had to keep trying to push that boulder up the mountain, had to keep trying to find the right thing to say, the right thing to do... He had to keep trying to fix things so that maybe Roger would be happy again. Maybe he wouldn't feel so bad all the time and they could be close like they used to.

He hadn't noticed that tears that had welled in his eyes as he stared out the window, nor the deep pensive frown that marred his features. This absence of realization did not leave room for surprise as a tear rolled down his cheek, eyelids fluttering again as he felt Roger's hand squeeze his own weakly. He wanted so badly to wake up from thus dizzy nightmare, to feel warm and happy and have Roger be happy as well.

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A/N: that's all for now! Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I love hearing from you all, so either leave me a review or shoot me a pm and lemie know what you thought!


	3. Not a morning person

Not a morning person

Summary: Roger wakes up and is not a happy camper.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Flies, I just hoard copies of the book.

Warnings: Lots of feelings. Mentions of doctors and medications, but no specifics.

A/N: Eyyyyyyyyyyy.

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He couldn't help it. As soon as he opened his eyes and stared up at what he could only assume was a white ceiling, he cried. It started out as small, silent tears rolling down either side of his face, but as the sounds, the smells, the feelings of the hospital all began to come back to him and flood over him like some horrible wave, his body practically convulsed with his loud, anguished sobs. He didn't want to be here again. He didn't want the doctors to poke and prod at him and ask him questions, give him medications. He didn't want whatever shrink they pulled out of their ass to try and console him and get him to spill his guts.

He didn't even want to look at Jack, who was trying desperately to calm him down. He could feel his hands over his arms, then brush of his cold fingers against his cheeks. He could hear him talking to him, but it sounded muffled, as if he were still under water. As if he were still trying to drown. He didn't want this. Stubbornly, Roger shut his eyes tight and jerkily rolled onto his side, facing away from Jack and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. How could he possibly look him in the eye now? Jack didn't love him anymore, he knew he didn't... The fact that he was here at all right now felt more like a bitter courtesy than supportive concern. It left a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach and a bitter, sour taste in his mouth.

Trembling, chapped lips cracked painfully as inconsolable wails left his mouth of their own volition, tearing the sensitive skin as yet again he felt Jack's hand, this time on the small of his back. He pulled his knees to his chest the second that he felt a dip in the bed, trying his hardest to protect himself from whatever it was that Jack was going to say. Because he would, he always said something, and Roger was never, ever prepared for how much it hurt. He couldn't even hold himself together, this time, between the shaking, gasping breaths that he was trying so desperately to pull into his crumbling chest, and the feeble attempt at wrapping his limp, useless arms around his legs, it was practically useless. He knew Jack would say something, though, because he had to. Because the silence was so much worse.

For hours, neither of them had said a word. For hours Jack had silently, stoically rubbed slow circles across his back, his cold hand dipped beneath the flimsy hospital gown. He'd held his hand, petted his hair, rubbed his cheek... He eventually laid down beside him, and looped his lanky arms around him, settled his chest flush against his back and pressed his lips against the back of his shoulder. The lack of reciprocation didn't seem to bother him, as he held perfectly still as Roger stared listless and wide eyed at the wall opposite them.

Why was he doing this?

Why was Jack bothering to keep up the charade when Roger already knew, had seen the letters, had uncovered the secret? Why was he doing this to him? For moments, fleeting seconds, it felt like this would have just been easier if he weren't here, but Roger wasn't convinced. He could try to drown alone, but he wasn't so sure that he could force himself to wake up alone. This was somehow simultaneously more and less painful and Roger wasn't wholly sure what to do.

It was hours still before he rolled over onto his back, not once tearing his gaze from the opaque ceiling, ignoring the feeling of Jack's heavy gaze upon him. Silence reigned supreme. Not until early morning the next day did he turn to face Jack, but he found that he couldn't properly face him. His gaze skittered away from his dozing face and came to rest instead on his shoulder, or his chest. Roger had uncurled his body some time ago, but now, with his head tucked just barely beneath Jack's chin, he found his arms folded against his own chest and legs scooted ever so slightly away from Jack's. How could he look at him now that he knew that Jack loved somebody else?

The birds awoke before Jack did, and Jack began to stir shortly after Roger had finally fallen asleep. Worry tugged Jack's brows up and crinkled his forehead, weighing his lips down into a frown as he lifted a hand to tentatively pet Roger's hair. He was a mess, his lips were cracked and sore, there were dark circles beneath his eyes and his skin was still flushed from crying. He must have started back up at some point... What had happened? What had he done to make him so upset? Jack pressed a tentative kiss to Roger's forehead as he slept on, trying his best to ignore the plaintive whimper from Roger. "I'm sorry..."

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A/N: That's all for now, hope you liked it! Leave me a review or shoot me a pm and lemmie know what you thought!


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